Day 8: Never have I ever... actually watched the Superbowl

I was raised by a dad who's more farmer than football. He would never spend a perfectly good Sunday afternoon watching sports. Find him in the garden, in the basement, fixing something, or on a boat. But never watching sports. Never. 

As a result, it's not a surprise that I don't possess a great affinity for team sports. No that I'm anti-sports. I like basketball, and follow the Knicks on and off. I like hockey, it's quite an exciting game to watch. And I like baseball best of all--the nostalgia, the Americana, the hot dogs. But I have no love for football. No. Love. I find it tedious and boring, and I just don't get the crazy fan-dom that surrounds the NFL. Sundays are religion. The stadium is the church. I bleed blue! Just ask my ex-boyfriend.

But, since the entire nation was watching football tonight, I decided it was a perfect time to stop judging football fans and actually learn about the game. It's easy to dislike something one knows nothing about. Surely I could muster up some appreciation for the most popular sport in America.  And I was invited to a small Superbowl party by my friend Beth. So I spent 90 minutes on the internet actually learning about the game of football. Ohhhh, that's what a down is? Finally, I knew what the announcers meant when they say "3rd and 6". Ohhhh, they're not just saying random numbers! I learned about down and distance, scoring, team structure, and other basics. 

In the past, I have watched the Superbowl with my dad, if I watch it at all. But let's face it, we're both only watching it for the commercials. He usually feigns attention while I surf the internet or read. I look up only to see these most-anticipated commercials of the year, and our only dialogue occurs about whether we like them or not. We usually like the halftime show, too. And we nosh. That's our Superbowl. But this year I was going to go to a real, live Superbowl party, my first-ever! 

Madeleine the Mascot

I picked up a case of Modelo Especial and headed over to watch some Steel vs. Cheese. It was the perfect Brooklyn Superbowl party: Eight ladies, two hipsters, a gay guy, and a French bulldog named Madeleine. At the core of this unlikely crew was our hostess, a native Pittsburger. She was adorably hopeful for her hometown, full of contagious enthusiasm. When the Steelers scored, or did other good football-y things, she politely said "Excuse me" and then whirled her Terrible Towel above her head while shouting "Woooooooooooooo!!!" I sat next to her, and truly paid attention to a football game for the first time in my life. It was hard to differentiate with all of those yellow thunder thighs on the field. It was an exciting game, as sports games go, thanks to the almost-comeback by the Steelers that almost resulted in the largest comeback in Superbowl history. But, as my dad always says: Almost only counts in horsehoes and hand grenades.

Sad Steeler

Results: Steelers lost to the Packers, vindicating the good luck charm selection off all those idiots wearing rubber cheese wedges on their heads. I definitely enjoyed football much more with a basic understanding of what the heck is going on with all those lines and numbers. But I'm sorry to say, I still think football is bo-ring. My favorite parts were the commercials, the train-wreck of a Halftime show, and the Very Special Glee episode. But I do I think that next year when my current roomie wants to put the Jets game on, I won't groan quite as much. 

Status: Success! 

Day 7: Never have I ever... driven draft horses

Ithaca is home to the multi-talented, all-around awesome husband and wife team Kirk and Jen, two of my most unique friends. Kirk, a farrier who hails from South Dakota, and Jen, a doctor of veterinary medicine and fabulous chef, live together with two dogs, four horses, and a cat and on 100 acres of their own beautiful Arcadia. 

I was thrilled that a visit to the their compound would coincide with this blog project; a weekend with Kirk and Jen is a welcome departure from our urban (or suburban) norms. Their home is heated entirely from one wood-burning stove. The wood is felled from their own land. Jen bakes bread from scratch. Kirk taps his maple trees, and makes homemade syrup. They raise pigs in the spring, and enjoy bacon all winter. During this particular visit, we enjoyed a delicious White Chicken Chili....except the dish wasn't made with chicken. Try wild pheasant. And Jen shot it herself on a recent hunting trip. 

Saturday morning meant fresh coffee and some of their delicious homemade bacon, followed by an outing to 'the barn', the newest addition to their dominion. This barn is another unbelievable feat: made from wood that was felled and milled by Kirk himself. He built the whole barn, too. Every nail. 
I know. Being around them does make me feel utterly useless, too. I was proud of assembling an Ikea dresser?!

Bob, Pete, the Barn, and the Rig

Kirk harnessed up two of their four horses, Pete and Bob, a Clydesdale and Percheron. He hitched the wagon, and we all piled on top of the hay bale seats. We were off. A few minutes into the ride, he passed me the reins, and I guided the horses from my position. I held the reins with both hands, trying to steady. Whoa Nelly,  this was tough. 

Within moments, Pete was out in front of Bob. The horses had detected my inexperienced hands and lapsed out of sync, like devilish children with a babysitter. I tried to correct this imperceptible problem, but it only got worse. Kirk told me to stop the horses. I pulled gently on the reins and said "Whoa". They came back into alignment.
"Let's start them going again," he said. Turning forward, he called "Waalllk", as I gave a gentle jolt on the reins. They started going forward.  
"Did my rein motion get them started?" I asked Kirk. 
"Nope, not really."

I did not have the talent or experience for this task. I asked Kirk how I was doing. "Well you're driving them," he said, "...but not well." Gotta love Kirk. Man of few words. 

I began to get a little freaked out as the open path started to disappear into a tiny trail. The wagon's weight is huge and burdensome on the horses, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to handle navigating the tightly wooded section up ahead. I didn't trust myself, and I think the horses sensed that. Since "never have I ever been in a wagon accident" is not at the top of my to-do-for-blog list, I decided to relinquish the reins back to Kirk and enjoy the ride. 

Holding the reins

Kirk guided us through the snowy woods with effortless ease. The horses respected him entirely. He used the occasional "Gee" or "Haw" to maneuver Bob and Pete left or right, over some treacherous terrain that left us clutching on to each other, giggling. I paid close attention to his voice commands and hand motions, because I would love to try my hand with these beautiful horses again sometime. Next time without four of my heckling friends watching. (see photo right of heckler #3) 

Results: The wagon ride was thoroughly enjoyable... as a passenger. I felt like a smiling pixelated bot from Oregon Trail as we traversed Kirk and Jen's beautiful land. No one suffered Dysentary. And I think everyone in the wagon felt more secure with the Horse Whisperer holding the reins. But yes, I did technically drive two draft horses and a wagon. Briefly. 

Status: FAIL. 

Day 6: Never have I ever... had AppleJack

Am I the only person who didn't know that the popular breakfast cereal marketed to children is actually named after a moonshine spirit popular during Colonial times? Who knew the folks at Kellogg's had such a good sense of humor. 

One of my friends, who shall remain nameless, crafts his own applejack for personal consumption. He is among the many people I know who live in Ithaca, NY.... a college town that's the perfect blend of hippie town+scenery. Not by coincidence, many of my friends went to school in Ithaca. And so began a tradition of a winter pilgrimage to Ithaca... a friend convention, of sorts. An adult sleepover. 

Two glasses about this size=drunk

To kick off the merriment, my friend arrived with a 2-liter coke bottle full of cloudy, piss-colored liquid, and announced we'd be drinking it. Mmmm. Sign me up. He poured small amounts into 10 glasses, we toasted our annual gathering, and down the hatch it went. Applejack? More like Applesmack. That's exactly what it did to my tongue. Ka-pow. 

But, since consuming Applejack was my *new* task of the day, one sip wouldn't do. So I poured myself a full glass and feared the aftermath of an Applejack hangover. A few sips in, and the bite was gone. I was now swilling tasty apple juice as the temperature of the room suddenly spiked. 

This is the orchard from which
the apples were picked

This A-J is particularly special. My friend picks the apples from his own orchard.  Seriously, who's ever had alcohol made from their own land?! I think this is pretty rad. First he mashes the apples, then presses them. Voila, homemade apple cider. From there, he puts in brewer's yeast, which munches up the sugar, excreting alcohol. And then he lets it sit. In a few days, he takes this alcoholic liquid and freezes it. The H2O freezes, leaving liquid with a higher alcohol content. He pours off this reduced liquid and tosses the frozen slush. This process can be repeated for a higher proof final product. He estimates that his Applejack is 50-70 proof, but there's no way to really know. Part of the excitement of the consumption is this mystery. How drunk am I gonna get here??

Results: Two glasses later, I was happily inebriated with a very light headache coming on. It wasn't a wine drunk, and it wasn't a liquor drunk, it was something in between. The Applejack was now delicious, and I craved one more, but I switched to a beer for my final bevvy of the night. And then I slept like an apple-cheeked baby. I woke up feeling a bit sluggish, but without a headache or any other measurable hangover symptoms. The second bottle of Applejack was just cracked moments ago, and my friends are currently hollering at me to stop typing and come have a drink. Gotta go...  

Status: Success! (not that consuming alcohol is exactly fail-able..) 

Day 5: (Boring Alert) Never have I ever... Haggled with a Big Bank

What? Every day can't be babies and adventures and rainbows. Some days are a little more oatmeal than omelette.

By nature, I'm not a haggler. I can negotiate well for business, but when it's MY money, I'm much less aggressive because it just seems.... pushy. So I've been putting off this annoying life task for months and losing money in the process. Stupid, I know.  It's easy to procrastinate on a task you've never done, because you tell yourself it's going to be JUST AWFUL. Ugh, i'm going to have to go there, and spend HOURS at the bank, and fill out tons of paperwork, and I probably won't even have the right documents, and then I'm going to have to go home and research tons of boring stuff to make sure they're not screwing me over... and I really don't want to do that on my Saturday morning. I'll go to brunch instead. 

Six months later you realize that you've spent more on sneaky little fees than you've spent on gas. So it was time to man up and go in there and get myself a better deal. This is America! Land of the deal!

I opened my accounts with my current bank when I was still a minor. So I'm a longtime client (you do the math.) For the sake of this blog, current bank will go by the alias Blochovia. It's not a bad bank. Actually their fraud protection has proven to be quite thorough. It's just that they charge me $2 to use an out-of-network ATM, in addition to the $2-3 charged by the ATM bank itself. Because the bank only has, like, 3 locations in all of New York City, and ZERO in Brooklyn, that brings their service from OK to useless. 

So I headed in to the bank (the very same suburban branch that I sat in more than 14 years ago opening the account with my Mom) and told my assigned Personal Banker that I wanted to stay with Blochovia, but now that I live in NYC, it's just not practical, unless they can work with me on the back-end ATM fees.  "Many other banks don't charge these fees, and several will even refund a certain amount for the other bank's ATM fees annually. How can Blochovia expect to keep clients if they can't match the competition?" I said.  I showed her fees from my account and compared them to other banks' fee structure. I was reasonable. I was polite. I was prepared. I was firm. 

I was also (later) appalled. First, my Blochovia rep looked at me blankly and say there was nothing to be done, before continuing on with her explanation. 
"Yeah, if I was spending money on ATM fees, I would be pissed, too. I don't blame you." 
I replied "I'm not upset, I hope I'm not coming off that way. My hope is just that Blochovia will work with me as an individual to keep my accounts. Because I should be saving my money with Blochovia, not spending it on ATM fees." 
Blank stare in return. 
She then continued on in an inappropriate tangent about how the bank merger with the Bell's Embargo Bank (alias) means that things are just "day to day" for them right now. 

What does that even mean? Why is she telling me this? I didn't want to give up. I tried harder to get her to understand, and make the exception, or get a manager, or something. I asked again politely. I said, if Blochivia couldn't help me resolve this, I would have no other option but to close my accounts. No luck. In the end, I'm just one of millions of accounts, and helping me is probably a bigger pain in the ass fo her than closing my account. 

I inquired about the process of switching banks and she handed me an annoying packed of papers to sign. With that, I said farewell. 

Results: Just as I expected, the conversation was uncomfortable. I hate uncomfortable conversations, which is why I procrastinate on stuff like that. Can't say this is a new experience I want to repeat. The closing/switching part was remarkably painless, and I can't believe that I let myself think this was going to be such a hassle. The biggest hassle was trying to get any useful information out of Ms. Blochovia. Though she was remarkably informative about account closing procedures. 

Status: Depends on how you look at this one. I'm sure I'll just be gauged by a new bank in all new ways, but for now, I took care of my something new by crossing off an old task! 

Day 4: Never have I ever... made a home video

This post could also be titled "Never Have I Ever Had SO MUCH Respect for Stay-at-Home Moms", but i'm really trying to avoid clichés here. But seriously... to all the parents out there: RESPECT.

I just spent the past three days with my adorable, hilarious nephews and I feel like just ran a marathon. Oh fuck, the clichés. I'm too tired to think. You people seriously do this every day? Come on. Surely you must lock them in the closet or tie them together from time to time. Child abuse? Please. That's sanity. They.never.stop. 
(Before anyone gets all worked up and calls CPS on me, let me be 100% clear: I'm kidding.) 

Taking care of young children all day long isn't exactly challenging. But damn, it's hard. It's exhausting, repetitive, ridiculous, and is the greatest exercise in patience I've ever had... and I only do it on snow days.  

Carter, Oliver, and their Jammie, Pop-pop and I were snowed in for two days while my sister had to trudge into work. (She works in healthcare, and sick patients don't take snow days...) In this childcare scenario, I try to make it easy on my parents so they can enjoy the kids rather than tire at their merciless energy. I usually handle the most annoying duties like meals, diapers, discipline, chasing. But I'm not delusional. This caregiving situation is easy-peasy compared to the typical day for most parents. I can say "Hey Dad, please watch Oliver for a minute. I really have to pee." The alternative if I actually was a stay-at-home mom? Oliver stands there looking at me quizzically as I drop trou, and I speculate permanent damage to his perception of normal family boundaries. 

I could go on and on about how much patience and love it takes to raise children well, but I don't want to overstate the obvious here. Plus, what the H-E-double-hockeysticks do I know? I'm not raising these kids. I'm just the babysitter. I aim to be a nurterer, but I know I'm only toe-dipping in the vast ocean that is Parenthood. And man, that bitch is deep. 

Today's New Experience: Shoot and edit a short home video. That's it. Simple? Tricky? Fun? Tedious? I didn't know. 

Six months ago, I got a new MacBook Pro, but I have barely scratched it's capabilities. I haven't even cracked iMovie, and just started with iPhoto last month. I'm surprised the folks at Apple haven't knocked on my door and taken it away to go live with a foster User.

Between iMovie and Flip, homemade movies so ubiquitous that it's almost embarrassing to admit I've never made one. There are elementary school children learning how to edit videos right now in their "TechnArtology" classes. But making good homemade movies require a dash of skill. My friend Christie, in particular, has demonstrated her Edward Scissorshands-like editing talents on multiple occasions. She hits all the right notes: Appropriate music, humorous captioning, clever timing. I aspire to make a piece that's a fraction as cute as her works. 

So, I spent all day Wednesday casually shooting the boys in their daily activities with a Kodak HD mini-videocam.  After the goslings went to bed, and after wiping the floor with my Dad in a few games of of Jotto, I began to upload the footage to iMovie. I didn't want to watch the stupid tutorial; winging it with iProducts is usually effective thanks to their intuitive UI. It took me about an hour to figure out how to import the footage, basic editing, music, text, and transitions. About 2.5 hours of actual editing and creative experimentation, and I was done. Unfortunately, starting this project at midnight was a bad idea. I was up until 4:00 a.m. binging on the meaningless details before forcing myself to shut down and get some rest. A mere four hours later, I woke to a tiny little hand pushing my door open. "ReeRee, are you awake? Let's go play games." 

Results: A cute little ditty* that the grandparents might even forward on to their AOL friends. Please keep in mind, after two days with cabin-fevered boys, things got a little wacky at Casa Bruno. And yes, we know that hand trucks aren't toys. 

Status: Success! 

Notes:
- I showed the video to the boys this morning. Carter thought it was the most hilarious thing he's ever seen. He laughed uncontrollably, danced around singing "i'm crazy like you!" and exclaimed "Play it again!". Oliver began to wail as soon as he saw the close-up shot of his own face. Upon the second viewing, Ollie made it a little further into the video,  and then again had a meltdown.... at the sight of his own face. Kids are so weird.  
*Warning: Contains nudity. Video not intended for children and pets under the age of 18.

Day 3: Never have I ever... channeled my inner Babka

Every good Polish grandmother makes her own pierogis. Whipping up hundreds for every family occasion is probably just another Thursday afternoon for Babka. But let me tell you... this is one laborious Polish delight. 

Quick backstory... 

I'm not the best chef among us. I love to cook, especially for others. There's nothing better than preparing a meal for someone you love to enjoy. It's even better when they don't spit out the food. As a budding chef, I've had some hits, I've had some misses. My family tends to remember the misses. If I offer to contribute a dish to a family function, I'm prepared for giggles. Back home in Brooklyn, a recent Boeuf Bourguignon effort was met with this question: "Um, Carrie, is 'bourguignon' French for 'leather'?"

So for all of you gourmands out there, don't laugh too hard at my modest culinary pursuits. Or I'll invite you over for dinner. 

Ok, back to yesterday's challenge: Make pierogis... from scratch. Serve to family for dinner. 

Since this isn't a culinary blog, I'll skip the actual recipe. But here's the basic gist: 

1. Make dough

2. Make filling

3. Shape pierogis

4. Boil and/or sauté

Seems simple, eh? Well, it's not. First off, making proper dough is never easy. And I had no idea what the consistency of pierogi dough should feel like, having never made it before. It seemed remarkably gluey to me. I had visions of my family futilely gnawing on rubbery shells of dough with forced smiles. So I mixed a little extra sour cream into the dough, and crossed my fingers. (I didn't know that pierogi dough has sour cream in it, the reason for the dough's unique zing.) After an eternity of messy kneading, I wrapped the dough ball in wax paper and stuck it in the fridge.

Making the filling was more idiot-proof, but equally time-consuming. The potatoes had to be peeled (the absolute worst kitchen task in my opinion), and then boiled. The onions had to be diced and then sauteed until translucent. The two then had to be mashed together until smooth. With no lubricant like butter or milk, much elbow grease was required. I added generous amounts of salt, pepper, chives and fresh parsley for seasoning. Finally, I mixed in about 8 oz of grated sharp cheddar. 

Next up was the pierogi construction--the really long part. The sticky dough had to be rolled thin and cut into circles. Due to the dough's shrinky-dink effect, the cut circles needed to be re-rolled to thin. Then, I placed a spoonful of filling on a dough circle, carefully wet the edge (by dipping my finger into a cup of water), and closed up the Polish Hot Pocket. However, pierogis require a sturdier seal, so I took a scallop-edged cookie-cutter and pressed the round side of each half moon. Otherwise the potato filling would escape when boiled. Then, I repeated that process for the next three hours, until 40 large raw pierogis emerged. 

Pierogis are cooked by either boiling or sauteing; I chose to boil. When I saw the doughy masses begin to float to the top of the water (the fully-cooked signal), I was thrilled. The dish at least passed this first test: they float! 

I served the pierogis hot, with sauteed onions, apple sauce, and of course, sour cream. The meal was rounded out by deliciously simple fresh beets. (I bought the beets with the intention of making borscht, but when the darn pierogis consumed my entire afternoon, I had to scrap that plan.) 

The family dug in. No one was spitting it out! 4 adults and 2 children ate about half of the monster batch, and we froze the rest. The dough wasn't rubbery at all (phew!) and the classic applesauce/onion/sour cream combo really let the flavorful pierogis shine. 

My parents had never had pierogis before (what?!!), and actually seemed to like them. Of course my father, who can't imagine a world without meat, commented "they're delicious, but would be improved with some bacon bits, the real kind, not that fake crap in the cupboard."

Results: Delicious pierogis and a sated family. But time investment+cost of ingredients vs. quality of product yielded makes it a no-brainer: I will return to buying Mrs. T's pierogis in the freezer section of my local grocer. 

Status: Success! (and leftovers) 

Day 2: Never have I ever... Bouldered.

I've heard Boulder is a lovely city. Legend has it that it's the jewel of the Rockies: a postcard-worthy town against snow-capped mountains, packed with shaggy-haired folks who bathe infrequently.... an irresistible trifecta! Luckily for likeminded New Yorkers, there is a headquarters for this type within city limits. Brooklyn Boulders, abbreviated BKB for those in the know. (I'm not in the know.) 

I've wanted to try out BKB since it opened last year, and I even had a $5 off coupon sitting in my desk. But it wasn't until my friend Ethan provided me with the impetus to go that I finally made it through the door. And by impetus, I should say awkward self-invitation. You see, we were at his birthday party discussing a good date to meet up with some friends. The interaction went something like this:
Me: So, are you free this Monday, the 31st? 
Ethan: Ah, I can't, I'm going rock-climbing with my friend Chris on Monday. (points to Chris a few feet away) 
Me: Ooooh! Rock climbing!! Where are you guys going?! In the city?? 
Ethan: (calling to Chris) We're going to Brooklyn, right? 
Chris: Yep. 
Me: Ooooh! Brooklyn Boulders!? I've heard that place is great!  I've been meaning to check it out! 
Ethan: Yeah, well, Chris goes a lot, I think he likes it. 
Me: Really?! That's so cool! Um, could I maybe come with you guys? I mean, would that be OK? I mean, if you guys want to just hang out just the guys, I totally understand, but if I'm not crashing the party then maybe I could come and, yeah, I really like rock climbing, it would be fun, um...
I don't need to keep going, do I? You get the idea. Ethan graciously encouraged me to come, despite my clumsy breach of social protocol. He didn't even make me feel like an overexcited asshole about it. Which I kinda was.

So that's the story of how I ended up at Brooklyn Boulders at 8:30pm on a Monday night.

BKB is the mecca for cool, urban hippie-types. Overlooking the fact that the entire, gi-normous establishment is seasoned with eau de B.O., the vibe of the place is laid-back and non-judgmental. The staff was familiar and competent, and the place was PACKED. Mind you, it was freezing cold Monday night in late January. I can only imagine how crowded it must be on weekends...

I have climbed many times before in my past, so climbing in itself isn't a new experience for me. In college, we had a free climbing gym on campus, and my high school was even lucky enough to have a climbing wall right in our gymnasium. But that was all top-rope climbing. With a harness and taut rope attached to one's pelvis, you have security. Actually, falling is fun. You swing back and forth suspended in air. It's like the circus!

But this bouldering business was new to me. Bouldering, for those who don't know, is a style of climbing without a rope and on lower walls over a crash pad. If you fall, you fall. The walls are only about 15' high, so falling wouldn't kill you, even if you were landing on hard ground. But would you want to jump out of a second story window?

On my first attempt (on a V0, the lowest level), I slipped reaching for the second set of holds. Lame. To add insult to more insult, all of the cool, urban-hippie-types scrambled up the much-tougher nearby walls like it was no big thang. I sheepishly looked back to Ethan and Chris and asked if we could start on a wall that didn't have an inverted angle.

From our newly-selected wall spot, I began to hit a stride. Chris pointed out some good routes for me. I silently instructed myself to chill out and ignore the fear of falling. A few half-successes up the wall later, I felt my beginner skills coming back to me. My moves were by no means pretty, but hey, I was climbing.

Finally, I made it to the top! It was then that I realized how friggin' high this "short" wall was. I looked down, clung to the wall, and hollered "So, guys...what now? I just have to jump?" I was freaked out. Chris told me I could jump, or climb down a bit. I chose the latter, and then jumped to safety on the marshmallowy crash pad below.

Yep, there it was. That same feeling I used to love: the jello-jigglers legs sensation. Like your knees have started yodeling. I'm not sure how else to explain it... but if you know what I mean, you know exactly what I mean.

We played around on the boulders for about two hours. I succeeded on two or three routes, and made valiant attempts at many others, including a "fun one" (as labeled by Chris) where you start clinging to the wall, almost horizontally, and then climb up to a vertical position. I failed miserably. Moments later, the friendly staff member who gave me a free climbing shoe rental came along and Spiderwomaned it.

Ethan and Chris* both did much better than me, but they are muscly boys and I'm just a tiny little woman. I asked the very nimble Chris how long he had been climbing, expecting his response to be in years. Turns out he's only been bouldering twice a week since November. (NOVEMBER?!?) Evidence that regular practice and dedication brings great reward, sometimes even speedily.

Results: A lot of laughs with two fun people, a reinvigorated interest in climbing, and one very sore body today. (My quads and arms are aching!)

Status: Success-ish

*Huge thanks to both for letting me tag along, coaching me up, and pretending that I didn't completely suck at it.